Office Pranks and a Poltergeist
by Backroads
Summary: Maybe it wasn't such a good idea for George and Percy to run a shop together after all.  DH Spoilers.
1. Return to WWW

_I've thought about Percy assisting George with the joke shop and I know a lot of other fics allude to it, but I wanted to write one anyway. It will give me a chance to write a DH fic that is actually happy. Even if this first chapter really isn't. But I plan on having a lot of fun with this story! As always, feel free to critique._

* * *

"Your office really is a mess." Percy Weasley fought the urge to bite his own tongue for that. Of course the office was mess. Why would it not be a mess? Well, tact had always rather been a come-and-go thing for him and the truth was that the office Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes had gone complete to whatever nargles lurked around and there was no use pretending otherwise. Even if it meant a little offense. He stood over the desk, head bent down, eyes squinting at the horde of parchment blanketing the wooden surface. He was rather afraid to begin sorting; the pile was thick enough to hold any array of pranks. And since no one had been in here for over a good month… did any of these odd little devices have dangerous expiration dates? If something transfigured itself horribly under these papers, Percy did not want to be the one to discover it.

But he didn't smell anything threatening. The parchment gave no foreboding shudder. Percy gingerly picked up a document. Nothing but a copy of a purchase order, jauntily signed with Fred's name. The ink was still reasonably fresh, and thank heaven it wasn't that crazy finger striping ink they sometimes used. Fred had been serious enough to sign a purchase order. Percy let the order flutter back to the desktop.

George Weasley gave an incoherent grunt from the other side of the office. He sounded distracted. Percy didn't turn around. It wasn't his office, after all. He really did not need to see whatever George was doing. It wasn't his business.

37 days. It had been thirty-seven days of near-hell since the defeat of Lord Voldemort and everything else. He really was not sure why he was counting. The counting did not make a difference. It didn't change anything. But he was still counting, considering the numbers, and thinking that maybe thirty-seven days was too soon after all. But it was also thirty-seven days and the whole stupid world was moving on. Still celebrating, of course.

Celebration. That had been the hard part. And the mourning. Percy had not felt much of anything since. All he knew was that the office of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was a disaster zone and he would not be Percy Ignatius Weasley if it did not bother him. Had they just left the place like it was before barging off to Hogwarts? The dust was thick enough. He picked up a few more papers, barely glancing at them, and felt a prick of annoyance. Shouldn't George be doing this?

Against his will he looked at his little brother. He was just staring at the wall, expression vacant, breeze from the open window mussing the hair over his missing ear.

Percy sighed and tried better to read the parchment. No, George should not be doing this. George should not even be here, even if the stupid world was moving on. And complaining about the mess to him wasn't going to help, either. Besides, as of late Percy enjoyed cleaning, even more so than usual. It felt good, a little, to make something clean, and when one hadn't been sensing many emotions… "George, how do you usually organize these things?"

The question seemed to shake George out of his trance. He shook his head, eyes scrambling like fruit flies to focus. "Huh? Oh, yeah. We… we usually had a charm to sort them. Haven't got a chance to freshen it yet. There's… there's a filing cabinet over there." He pointed to a dented green Muggle filing cabinet. Something bright yellow and rope-like was twisting at one of the handles. "Everything should be labeled."

"Thanks." Percy grabbed all he could that looked like a purchase order, some baring Fred's jaunty signature, and headed to the filing cabinet. Why had he come here? George had mumbled something over breakfast about going to straighten the shop a bit. Somehow Percy had wound up coming along, half-afraid George would do something incredibly dumb to the poor shop and they would hear about explosions in Diagon Alley all over the radio. Bigger explosions than normal, anyway. Probably a silly thing to worry about. George would never do something like that, not intentionally. Maybe that was what had scared Percy. George hadn't been himself. Of course George hadn't been himself.

Percy couldn't think about it anymore. He hated thinking about it. Cleaning was so much easier. He strode over to the filing cabinet and opened it.

There was the sound of a muffled whistle, a blast of yellow dust, and the next thing Percy knew he was covered in something like those Muggle post-it notes. He tore one from the lens of his glasses and turned to George in horror.

George was watching, half-smiling. "Forgot about that one."

"You are so obnoxious."

George shrugged. The half-smile had lasted longer than Percy had expected. "You're the one that wanted to come."

Percy slammed the drawer shut, trapping one last squirming post-it note between drawer and cabinet. "Where do you really put this stuff?"

"I'll take them." He stretched out his arms.

Percy hesitated. He had seen the signatures. Like signatures held anymore pain than anything else. He handed the parchment over. "I have no idea how this place runs."

"It's just business stuff. The lab's through the other door." George's voice was disgustingly bland and quiet. It had been that way ever since, and it was getting annoying.

"I am not going to clean that lab for you."

"Good, because I wouldn't let you." George walked up to a toilet seat hanging as regally as a toilet seat could possibly hang on a wall and opened the lid. So there was the mysterious filing system. "You don't know a thing about invention."

That was true. Percy swallowed—his throat was dry. "I've never been in the shop before know."

Another grunt.

It was a neat shop, he supposed. He had seen the shelves and tables, also lined with dust. It was pretty good. "When are you going to reopen?"

"Next week, sometime then. Probably." George finished the filing and closed the toilet bowl lid. "I need to dust."

"I'll dust. That's why I am here."

"You don't know which duster is safe." He gazed, seemingly bored, at the toilet seat. "Don't use the one upstairs in the flat."

George had been living at the Burrow ever since.

Percy tried to force a smile. It did not work. He was just too tired, and it was terribly awkward to be having a conversation here. It was already climbing for the first place in longest conversation they had held since. "I don't know if I trust you."

"Nothing here will kill you."

Kill. It was like something had thrown a knife into Percy's chest, and he flinced.

George's face was still vacant. "I'll dust. I said I would first."

Percy returned to the desk, trying to decide what next to collect. He was probably organizing everything completely wrong, and George wasn't in the state to fix it. Had that toilet thing even been a real filing system. "Are you sure you're ready to reopen?"

A long pause. "Ready as I'll ever be. And it's not like you have a job to go back to."

That was true. Percy was desperate for something that did not have the word "Ministry" associated with it in any way, shape, or form. "I don't care."

"You should care."

He was right. "George, I'm talking about you. I'm worried about you."

"Why is everyone worried about me?" It was a phrase that could have easily been shouted, but he just said it in that same bland tone.

Percy, for a split second, had something he wanted to say, but just as quickly that information vanished. "Go dust outside," he said simply. "I'll work in here. Just… just show me how you want the filing."

George slowly opened the toilet seat again. There really were labels. "Hey, Percy?"

A question. George actually had a question, and if it had something to do with the matters of life and death Percy felt he would scream. "Yes?"

"Can you help me with this?" There was the slightest change in his tone—now Percy could hear pleading. "The shop, I mean. I can't handle the whole thing by myself."

Their stupid joke shop. Percy winced. "Sure."


	2. Concerning Toast

It was probably the worst idea he had ever had. That was George's first thought as he awoke the next morning, thought combined with a sudden, burning realization of pure stupidity. What a way to greet the world. Open eyes and scary awareness. Well, at least it chased the sleep away and it wasn't like he had never awoken to the grand old realization of stupidity before. Stupidity and foolishness were just other words for the unexplored and the untested.

Percy was going to destroy the dang shop.

George groaned in self-loathing as he pushed the covers away and rolled onto the floor. He was usually a morning person, but then again he was usually not in worry of his older brother destroying his life's work. The happy little hall of Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes infiltrated by Percy shouting pig-headed orders at the poor and unsuspecting customers. There would be a rebellion against that, of course—Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes catered to a certain breed of customer not about to listen to the likes of ex-Ministry employee Percy Weasley and the safety hazards of the more complex trick wands. George managed a grin and pulled himself to his feet. Now it was all just a lovely visual, that rebellion. The shop was going up in the subsequent explosion, tragically, but it sure was funny, the idea of Percy bound and gagged with common Muggle duct tape (a surprisingly huge seller) in the broom closet. Boy, was George going to need a camera.

He headed into the bathroom, now stuck between the two contradicting concepts. Percy assisting with a business that he would never be capable of appreciating and that of Percy trapped in a broom closet. With the broom that increasingly dirtied the floor it swept. Beating him across the head. Or was that a little too violent an image? He didn't mean anything violence, that was simply the nature of that particular trick broom. It didn't cause injury.

Unlike a broom that would bite the rear end of anyone who sat on it. Ooh. He would have to write that one down.

He turned on the sink's faucet and waited patiently for the water to resemble something properly warm, then proceeded to splash his face. He was awake, but the water always helped, always solidified the concept. He stared into the mirror. Water dripped from his freckled cheeks and strands of red hair, one sample of which hanging more densely over his missing ear. The spot still hurt a little now and then—soreness was a more proper term—but otherwise it had healed.

It was kind of ugly, that spot. If an animal lost an ear in a fight, it looked cool. Even Bill was allowed to sport the impressive collection of scars. Facial scars added a rugged appearance, Fleur said. But a missing ear on a human? Heck, it was just like saying he was a common mongrel. Pathetic. George the One-Eared? Like that was supposed to be terrifying. He shrugged and patted the hair down around it. Primping. Well, everyone needed to primp a little every now and then. He patted his face dry with a towel and reached for his toothbrush. It was the red one in the cup. Now to return to the matter of Percy.

What in the world had he been thinking, inviting Percy to work there? He had not been in the best state of mind at the time, that was granted, but had he been completely drunk?

No. He had never been drunk before, but he was pretty sure he would be a heck of a lot more exciting intoxicated rather than offering his brother a job.

He could always lie, he supposed. Cast a spell over the shop that allowed everyone but Percy to see it. Lock Percy in the broom closet with the rear-biting broom that had yet to be invented. Damn it. He had to invent that broom first.

He reached for the toothpaste—the real kind, not the tube spiked with extra rabies-suggesting foam placed in case another member of the family decided to borrow toothpaste instead of buying his or her own—and squeezed it onto his toothbrush. Maybe it was the banana freshness, but his thoughts gave way to a pivot. Was it really such a big deal, this Percy thing? He, George Weasley, was admittedly crazy, but only in the sense of the tragically misunderstood genius living in a world full of lost souls who did not understand the heavenly joy of watching someone spontaneously sprouting pacman frogs from their armpits and therefore must show them the light. He was not crazy in the shut-me-up-in-St Mungo's definition. He therefore must have been completely sane at the time. Percy had his moments and George did need some help. Plus, the idea of solemn-faced Percy walking around that store was marvelously entertaining. Eh, it would be all right. He spat the toothpaste into the sink and rinsed. They had once considered designing toothpaste that would keep one's teeth clean for weeks at a time but had decided against it due to the lack of the spitting factor.

The rinsed toothbrush fell from his hand and clattered on the counter, droplets of water striking the mirror. He stared at them, half-dazed, as he clutched the edge of the counter. Only a few miniscule drops, no need to clean the mirror. They would evaporate in a minute. He unclenched the counter and drew in a deep breath, then another. He wiped the last remaining stripes of toothpaste from his mouth with his sleeve and left the bathroom.

He knew he wasn't supposed to think about it. The thoughts hovered at the edge of his consciousness but still stayed very much out of it save for a few glimmers that were automatically pushed aside. It was a game, a good game, and it worked very well—every once in a while. But he was training himself. If he thought about other things, he was more or less fine. And it really wasn't as bad as he assumed everyone else assumed. After all, it was thirty-eight days and counting, and every day was like a victory. That was a long time, in a way, and it was almost a miracle that he had survived all those days. Here he was, about to reopen the joke shop, existing and breathing.

It was rude to breathe when other people couldn't. Fourth rule (or was it third?) of cemetery etiquette. He laughed to himself as he went through the closet to find something to wear. There was quite a long list of rules of cemetery etiquette, including yelling "get a life" as one went past and the protocol for scrambling letters on headstones. And one must never use a green crayon for grave rubbings. Green represented the grass utterly opposite of the brown dirt the corpse saw and was therefore tactless. He had mentioned the etiquette rules to the family two weeks before and they had all looked at him like he was crazy and morbid. He had shrugged it off. He thought the rules were plenty funny. Fred would have thought them plenty funny as well. He had come up with half of them, after all. And it was rude to breathe when other people couldn't. All Mum's talk of manners!

He still thought the rules were funny. Why did everything associated with death have to become automatically morbid?

There it was. Training in action. He had thought of something else and he was now fine. He checked a small bowl of a combination of salamander eggs and left-over toast soaking in now-fuchsia water. It was smoking faintly, interestingly enough. The potion he had added was entirely experimental—he still had no idea what it would do. He just had to wait for something interesting to happen. It was a similar formula to the pimple-vanishing cream, but that didn't mean he was going to market another item like that. He was sort of hoping for something that would change one's voice. The joke shop already carried Mouse Squeak Soda Pop, but more of a variety in vocal selection would be good. A random tangent from the pimple-vanishing cream, but it would be cool. Maybe it was time to test the stuff to find out just what qualities it had. He pulled a glass vial from under his bed and dipped it into the water. The water was surprisingly thin for all the stuff soaking in it, but the fuchsia color was still strong. He corked it and put it into his pocket.

Usually he was more scientific in his approach to such things—the "wait and see" tactic was a tad childish and sadly unreliable. Oh, well. Now in whose breakfast would he place it? He was pretty sure it was not poisonous, at least not lethally. It contained toast, for crying out loud. He left the room with only the slightest catch of breath.

Yes, it was going to be an okay day.

Half the family was already in the kitchen by the time George arrived. His mother was placing breakfast on the table, Ginny carrying in an empty watering can, spout still moist. Ron was in his seat, yawning.

"Good morning," said George, whipping out his wand and guiding a pot of juice to the table. His goal was to one day say the line with incredible perkiness, just to see what the family would do. It hadn't yet happened. But someday it would.

"'Morning, dear," his mother replied, bustling over to place a quick kiss on his cheek. She had been more affectionate ever since. "Sleep well?"

George nodded. Sleep well. It was the same greeting every single morning. It was probably now said out of habit, it was still bordering on annoying. If he would properly answer the question, he would reply that for the first week his sleep cycle had been torn between insomnia and the sleep of the petrified until those had left him so exhausted his body was forced to return to something half-way normal. So, recently, the sleep had been reasonably well, whatever that was supposed to mean. "Fine."

Another yawn from Ron. The back of his hair was sticking up. "I had a weird dream. It involved jackrabbits."

"Jackrabbits aren't weird," Ginny said as she placed the watering can under the sink. "They're cute."

"They ate your pygmy puff."

Ginny promptly hit him over the back of the head. "George, jackrabbits don't eat pygmy puffs, do they?"

How was he supposed to know? He just bred the little fluff balls and sold them for a few sickles. Nothing had required him to do a report on where they fit into the food web. "Mum served them for dinner last night," he said seriously.

For a split second her face betrayed her belief. Then she laughed.

This was good. This was how it was supposed to be. No weird stares in his direction or at each other.

"Good morning, family." His father entered the room, followed by Percy. George suppressed a grin. The image of Percy trapped in the broom closet was still too much. "What's for breakfast?"

"Pygmy puffs," George said innocently.

His mother sent him a look that was a cross between a scowl and an effort not to burst into tears. Again.

And now an awkward silence ruled the kitchen. Good grief, Ginny had laughed, and it wasn't even that great a joke. Maybe that was the explanation. A better joke was necessary.

"Oatmeal and toast," came the truth.

Toast. Oh, yes. As the juice was passed to him, he quickly poured in the vial's contents. Let the whole family test it, see what they thought. He half-expected to hear George faintly sniggering next to him. Well, the juice was quite good without the salamander-and-toast potion.

"So, George," Percy began in the most boring of conversational tones. "Are we going over to the shop again today?"

Broom closet. Too bad he no longer that the desire to smile. "Yeah, right after breakfast, if you're ready. It's so dusty in there." They had meant to clean before transferring the business to Aunt Muriel's. They really had.

"I still have it in my nose from yesterday." He wasn't joking. The perfect line to transform into a joke and he refused.

"So you really are going ahead with this?" Arthur asked, pouring the juice into his glass. "Both of you running the shop?"

George was okay with it. At the moment. And he was the one who had asked, he reminded himself. He looked at Percy, who stared back at him. "I guess so."

Percy nodded in agreement.

Molly pursed her lips, her eyes focused on the oatmeal in front of her. "I suppose that's a good plan. It must be an awful lot of work running that shop, I never quite understood how you were able to do it. All those customers and numbers…"

"I've had plenty of experience with numbers, Mum." Percy took a swig of the juice.

Action ready. George watched, hopefully more or less inconspicuously.

"Counting the measurements of cauldrons and possessed Ministry workers," said Ron.

Not bad. George wished he had more desire to laugh. Or ability.

Percy, on the other hand, had the opposite desire. He slammed his glass on the table with enough force to gain the attention of the entire family. "Not funny, Ron."

Ron's gaze flickered over to Ginny and then Arthur. "I was just…"

"Not funny."

"Cripes, Percy, I was just…"

Percy shot him a look of destruction and Arthur nearly rose from his seat. "I don't think we need to be having this conversation at the breakfast table. We all have places to go this morning and it's best we do this in relative peace."

The glare of destruction was still in place. Percy had always looked hysterical when he was angry. Like a frog pulled unceremoniously from a pond in order to be tested. Once upon a time. Ginny with her cries and tears had long ago put an end to animal testing. Maybe a little bit of destruction over oatmeal and toast was just what the family needed. Or whatever the fuchsia liquid would do to that juice. George was still waiting.

"I would rather not discuss the Ministry," Percy muttered.

Ron shrugged and took a sip of juice. "Point taken. Ministry is a bad subject. Got it."

For a painfully long time no one spoke. It just the eating of oatmeal and the sipping of juice, spoons clanging against bowls and Ron spontaneously choking on the oatmeal. George found himself desiring to see Percy tear across the table at Ron, just to make things interesting. There had been a lot of meals in such a fashion over the past thirty-eight days and George was getting sick of it. He should have brought something down, something that would creep underneath the table and explode. Explosions were always a delight. Or something, anything, that would break up the stupid monotony. When was that potion going to properly kick in? If it didn't, he was going to single-handedly begin a food fight.

And just as he was in the process of lifting up an oatmeal-laden spoon, it happened. A clap of thunder, just enough to ripple the juice, a few clouds, and then the fall of a light rain—over every head save George's.

Apparently the fuchsia potion, when consumed, created a low-pressure system over the consumer's head. Interesting. Perhaps he could tweak the stuff for different types of weather….

Molly gave a tiny scream and through her hands over her head. Ginny actually ducked underneath the table. Arthur rolled his eyes. "George."

George shrugged. "What?"

"What is that?"

"Rain."

He sighed, pulled out his wand, and flicked the lot of it away. Molly shook her hair out, rain splattering. "Lovely. Now the oatmeal is ruined."

"It was only a light rain," George said. "Besides, my oatmeal is fine."

"You slipped something into the juice," said Ginny. "I thought I saw you."

Every set of eyes turned to him and for a moment it was like before. Just another bout of annoying trouble. "I needed test subjects."

"Are you sure you want to work with that?" Ron asked Percy.

Percy wiped his glasses dry. He looked very much irritated.

"Rain," Molly said icily. "Of all things, rain. Soak the floor and the food and the tablecloth."

"You could have put it outside and saved me from watering the flowers," said Ginny. At least she seemed to find it half-way amusing.

Molly ignored that comment. "And the cans of food. I was in the pantry this morning grabbing the cinnamon and every single jar had been turned on its head. I don't know if those pickles are going to preserve properly or not, even with Aunt Muriel's charm. I suppose that was your business as well?"

Turning atop jars of food. Subtle, demure, but elegantly funny. But not his work. "Sorry, Mum, but not me." Nice to know that she didn't think him too completely a wreck to do it.

She pursed her lips again. "Then who was it? Does anyone have any idea how long it will take to move them all?" Her eyes searched the table.

Uh-oh. She was looking for a volunteer. George shoved the rest of the oatmeal into his mouth.

"I'll do it," Ron said quickly, terrified.

It didn't seem to make her that much more happy.

Percy stood up from the table. "I'll meet you at the shop then, George?"

The shop. Oh, yeah. He had nearly forgotten. Cleaning. "Yes, there." The key was upstairs. "I'll be down in a minute." How could he have forgotten the key? He darted up the stairs and back into the room. Key, key. He had it yesterday.

Downstairs he heard the sound of lots and lots of breaking glass and a scream from his mother. "You tried to use a spell?!"

George grinned as he pulled the key from under a shoe, wondering what the heck it was doing there. He slipped it into his pocket and headed for the door. He didn't quite make it. Sometimes it hit without warning and he still had no idea what caused it.

He sunk to his knees, crying.


	3. Key Trouble

_I'm so impressed by the number of people that read this! Thanks so much! I'm also glad that so many of you are all right with how George is being characterized. I just couldn't bear to take away that part of him that makes him George._

* * *

Though it was still early, Diagon Alley was already witnessing the sprinkle of the early morning populace. A few witches and wizards hung at corners, talking and laughing as they had done in the days before Lord Voldemort as they waited for the street to become fully open. Already it seemed that every other shop in the vicinity was opening its doors, sending out enchanted dust bins to assist with the morning cleaning, and preparing sales floors. Or perhaps the owners were just enjoying last minute hot chocolate before business began.

Meanwhile, Percy Weasley was standing before Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, feeling extremely bored, while his brother fiddled with the key. Despite all of George's cleverness in every other line of intelligence, nothing had happened to progress the opening of the door. Both of George's hands were clasped around the key, tugging and yanking it every which way a key in a lock could be turned. And despite the sweat running down his face and the intermittent swear words the door was not opening.

It was pathetic to watch. Percy sighed and forced a smile at a gaggle of rather attractive young witches passing with clutched purses. He should probably be more patient—George had not been to the shop in several months and the situation was no doubt upsetting even after yesterday. It was perfectly logical that he might have some memory trouble in remembering how to get in. Even if yesterday had been a quick and successful entrance. The emotional implications of yesterday's visit might have… "Good hell, George, it's a key! How hard can it be to turn it?!"

George paused his war with the lock and key to glower. It was still impressive just how nasty George could look. Not that nasty was a usual look for him. In many ways it was refreshing to see. "I don't see you helping."

Percy rolled his eyes. He knew it was petty to feel impatient. "You think two people trying to turn a key will make it any easier? Are you sure it's the right key?"

George's subsequent "yes" came a little too late for Percy's assurance.

The cleaning supply place across the road had flipped over its glowing "OPEN" sign. They were ready for business. If George couldn't get the door open soon they were going to lose precious money. And the shop hadn't been open since… "George, is this your way of telling me that you don't want me to help?"

George was now kicking the door. "Percy, for the last time I want you to help."

The twins had always been pranksters, but at the same time had been reasonably upfront with every other emotion. "Are you sure it's the right key?"

"Yes, I'm sure. I checked it while you were whining."

So he had experienced some doubt about the key. Percy couldn't resist a smile. "Do you want me to try?"

"I can open my own door!"

"Doesn't look like it. Couldn't you have just made this susceptible to Alohamora?"

"And let every prankster in Britain into this shop?" George paused, seeming stunned by the very idea. "Do you have any idea the implications of such a folly? Do you know what would happen to civilization if some dumb kid got into this shop without my supervision?" George locked eyes with him. There was no humor, only a severe proclamation of doom and destruction.

At least, that was what Percy thought before he realized George was joking. Then he thought about what would happen, after all he had seen from Fred and George, and realized he was not joking. "Oh."

"That's right, Percy. That's right."

"You could have at least made it a little easier for entrance," Percy continued. Weird George security measures.

"That takes out all the fun of it." This time George actually kicked the doorknob.

Would it be more effective to just break in? Wow, what a thought. Whatever

happened to the day when he would have been appalled at such an idea? Well, he guessed he had always been ruthless in his own way. Abandoning his family, abandoning the Ministry… winding up filing papers at a joke shop… what a sad, sad life he was now leading. And yet he found himself continuing the plot. "If we just broke down the door, what horrible traps would await us?"

George gave a dry laugh as he again twisted the key. "Like you would want to know that. Like I would let you know that."

"George, if I'm going to be helping you out here…" Percy's voice trailed off. He shouldn't pursue it. It wasn't his shop, it belonged to Fred and George and always would.

George had let go of the doorknob and key and was now staring at it like a challenger. "Maybe somebody switched the keys."

"George, did you insert the key correctly?" Percy asked. It was something he would have assumed George to have earlier checked, but oh, well. "Is it right side up?"

A long moment of silence. Then George, with a grumpy huff, pulled out the key, flipped it over, reinserted, twisted, and opened the door.

Percy couldn't help but smile as he followed George inside. Simple rules were always best to follow.

"Well," said George. "Here it is."

Same dusty displays he had seen yesterday. "We were here less than twenty-four hours ago. And apparently left the lights on." Percy hated leaving the lights on. But here they were, shining brightly over the half-stocked shelves of collapsible china, daydream kits, and prank books.

"No, that's me!" A perky voice sounded from behind a table of trick wands and George swore under his breath.

Wow, thought Percy. A real intruder.

The speaker appeared, a blonde witch dressed entirely in Muggle clothes. Her hair was cropped close around her head. "I heard you were going to do some work in the shop today, Mr. Weasley so I thought…"

"How the heck did you get in here, Verity?" George asked. He didn't sound angry, just very confused.

Verity shrugged nonchalantly as if she had every right to break into a shop. "You left the back window open. It's not that difficult to remove a screen."

"You mean we just spent twenty minutes struggling with the front door while you popped through a screen."

"Yep." Her green eyes fell on Percy. He didn't like the way she looked at him, like a spider eyeing its prey. "Who's he?"

George looked over as well. Percy felt practically naked. George had invited him to work here. He was family. He did not deserve to be paraded out like a display at a freak show. "A hobo I picked up in front of the book shop. I thought he could live in the bathroom and fix the sink when it gets clogged."

Verity uttered an annoyingly high-pitched giggle.

"I'm Percy Weasley," Percy said flatly. "George's older brother." He held out his hand, and Verity gave it a surprisingly firm shake.

"Another Mr. Weasley," she began with a perkiness that died after the final syllable as she glanced at doors. Her green eyes looked all the larger. "Mr. Weasley, I hope you don't mind me coming in today. I didn't know if you didn't want me… no one ever went through the proper channels to actually fire me or something like that. I just figured I would pop in and help."

Probably just wanted a paycheck. Percy quickly decided he did not like her, rushing in here so carelessly after Fred's death, chattering away like some hyper squirrel.

George just shrugged. "I'm fine with that, Verity. Have you started anything? Anything that's useful, I mean?"

"I actually did unclog that sink in the bathroom," she replied. "Then I was going to start dusting."

Another shrug. "Sounds good."

And to think that George had been relatively alive this morning. Alive. He chased that word from his thought bank. "This place needs to be dusted," he said firmly. Just like being back at the Ministry bossing around the people that actually listened to him.

Verity frowned. "I just said I was going to dust."

"I meant the rest of us."

She didn't look offended, just turned back to George. "I'm very sorry about your brother, sir."

Percy's breath caught in his throat. Not another one of these conversations. And to think they had even paused for the past few weeks. Like every single person in the family wasn't sick and tired of being consoled. Like they could not assume that other people were kind and sensitive enough to feel some sorrow. Not everything had to be expressed. And to say it right to George's face… goodness, it had been years since he had felt this protective over George. And yet what could he do? Stand there next to him in a dusty shop? They were all adults here. He looked sideways at George. Who knew how George would react anymore?

"We're all sorry about Percy," George replied solemnly. "But tragically there is nothing anyone can do."

Percy snorted. Well, at least the tension was broken. Verity blushed a deep red as she let out another squeaky, high-pitched laugh. "Really, what is Mr. Weasley going to do here? Besides unclog drains?"

"Percy will be working in the office doing all the boring stuff." A real answer from George. Almost funny. Not that Percy dared judge what was funny or not. But it was a lot better than George had been. Better than yesterday. Percy had been terrified that George coming back to the shop would have been an emotional disaster for him.

"And I still have my old job back?" Verity asked timidly.

"You broke into the shop," George said. "I figure that deserves something."

"Can I just get into the office now?" Percy asked.

"I thought you were going to dust."

"You are the one that just consigned me to the office."

"You can dust first. You were right. It's a mess out here and we need all the help we can get."

Percy froze mid-step. There was a note in George's voice that he hadn't heard in years. A plea. It was not a good time to leave George, even if this Verity was with him. "Where's the cleaning stuff?"

"In the office."

"Well, then, I'm off to the office."

It took a good seven minutes to find three non-violent feather dusters, a bottle of cleaner that hopefully would not turn anything or anyone different colors, and some rags. The office was still a mess. One dangerous, prank-ridden mess. For the first time Percy was truly glad he was moving into it He would organize it and set it up his way—no George or even Fred influence allowed.

He cringed. Not a good thought to have. Not a good thought to have at all. He set the cleaning stuff on a desk and stared about the office. Nice enough, close enough to an office as anyone would get.

"I hope you don't mind me being in here, Fred," he said softly.

He honestly could not guess what the answer would be. He picked up the supplies and opened the door.

"Freakin'… watch it!" Verity slipped around the door, eyes wide. "You nearly hit me with that, Mr. Weasley!"

Great. So he officially was a Mr. Weasley. "Where's George? I mean, Mr. Weasley?"

"Rats got in," she said. "I think he's trying to catch them. He sent me after you."

Percy held up the cleaning supplies. "You wouldn't believe where I found them."

"They were invisible, weren't they?"

"Camouflaged is probably the correct term." He handed her a duster and started past her.

"Mr. Weasley?"

Interesting. The girl now worked for him, more or less. "Yes, Verity?"

"Is Mr. Weasley doing all right?" Her voice was much smaller than before. "I've been worried about him since… since the funeral."

Percy hated to think about the funeral. "He's… he isn't doing too bad. I think he'll be okay."

"I hope so," she said fervently.

So did Percy.


	4. Cleaning

_I just wanted to thank everyone who has been reading this! I'm sorry I don't update as much as I should, but it means so much to me to know that you're enjoying this! This chapter is a little short, but it does provide a few clues to the main plot._

* * *

Sometimes George was convinced that he was surrounded by imbeciles. Everyone knew just how useful magic could be, but it really could not be that hard to catch a couple of rats without it. And even if trouble did occur, well, what happened to freezing the little rodents? George did not like to think of himself as a mean person. He was not. Despite all the… well, kind cruelty of the stuff in the shop, he liked to think he had a reasonably good heart. Verity was a great girl to have around and except for that little incident of three years George had only called Percy an idiot in fairly good fun.

So how did it happen that he was now standing around while he watched Verity and Percy scream and carry on as they chased around after rats? He sighed and hung his head, seriously regretting Percy's insistence that he stand back, get some rest, and let them do the work. Verity already had a cut knee and Percy had knocked over an entire shelf of boxed sneezes and there were still rats.

Three rats. Three fat grey rats with tails like fuzzy ropes. George did not know how they got into the shop and frankly he did not care to know. After all, it wasn't like regular little punks off the street breaking in to do damage. They were rodents and not like that nasty "pet" of Ron's.

"It's been fifteen minutes, guys," he finally announced.

Neither Verity nor Percy looked up.

George sighed again. "We still have dusting to do. I thought I had made that out to be a high priority for us."

"George, do you have any idea what kind of a health hazard street rats are?" Percy, of course.

"Percy, do you have any idea how to use a wand?"

Verity shook her head fervently. "Uh-uh. No way. We are not using a spell on a poor little animal."

George rolled his eyes. Apparently she had nothing against the health hazards of street rats. Verity had always been an interesting girl to work with. Not quite one of those eco-warriors that roamed the world burning down human dwellings, but not exactly a social conservative, either. Well, she was cute and young and she could sell to any male customer that walked in through the door, so that was good enough for him. "Verity, it's a rat. Have you ever seen a rat before?"

"The rat tripped me, Mr. Weasley."

Oh, brother. "And you still want to save it?"

At that moment there was a wail from Percy as he dropped to his chest, hands stretched out in front of him wielding a sauce pan. George wasn't quite sure where in the world Percy had managed to get a sauce pan but then again he himself wasn't 100 sure about what things were in the darn shop.

"Did you catch it?" Verity asked, bounding over.

No, Percy did not. George could see the little guy three feet away on top of a box of… actually, the box was not labeled save for a warning sign about eye protection. So it probably wasn't completely safe, probably belonged in the defense section. Or maybe it was untested. They had been experimenting with acid-squirting contact lenses… Nah, it could not be that kind of eye protection.

The other two rats poked their furry little heads out from underneath a bookshelf.

They were kind of cute.

Verity was the next to spot them. She slowly rose from her knees, green eyes focused like an eco-friendly hunter on the rat. "There it is, Mr. Weasley," she whispered.

On one hand, George never thought he would see Percy crawling around on hands and knees on the floor for a rat. Just one of those things men like Percy did not do. It was thoroughly entertaining to watch, one of those situations that called for a real camera that did not turn you momentarily invisible (sadly, the only kind that was presently sold at the shop). Either there was a side to Percy George had never seen or he was missing an ample blackmailing opportunity.

Realistically, it was most likely that whole guilt, let's-pity-George thing. He was getting sick of it. Really sick of it. Like the rest of the family did not need to be pitied. Good grief, but he really needed a camera.

Percy swung the sauce pan one more time.

"You are going to leave a dent somewhere," George complained. Last thing he needed right now was a shop in shambles, no matter how hilarious the process of shambling was. "Don't make me fire you."

"You said I wasn't fired," Verity said.

He and Fred had once discussed the possibility of actually firing Verity. Not because she was a bad employee; the discussion had been completely theoretical. George just sort of had the vibe that he would be murdered in his bed if he had ever tried to fire Verity. At the very least, she would refuse to leave and that would be the end of the matter.

It was going to be very interesting to see how she got along with Percy. They had found a common goal in rat-catching.

The rat, of course, jumped out of pan's way.

George sighed once more, pulled out his wand, and stunned all three rats. Nice. He still had the touch. All three furry bodies, whiskers not even twitching, hit the floor from various spots.

Percy looked disgusted. "Verity asked you not to use magic on them."

George had always tried to be a gentleman, but some things were not worth it. "Sorry, Verity, but we have things to do today."

"Are they hurt?" The poor girl looked terrified and George was not going to be sucked into guilt by big eyes. That had always been Fred's weakness. Wow, a benefit to Fred not being around.

He was going to pretend he had never thought that. He turned the thought away with a sharp bite on his lip. 'They're fine. They're stunned. Take them outside."

This was the part where they both stood there staring in something akin to horror.

"Pick them up," George urged. It wasn't that hard. If they didn't do it soon, he was going to levitate the rats and chase the imbeciles out the door.

"They're disgusting," Verity said. Ah, the return of the health hazard. Percy nodded.

"You tried for awhile to catch them with your bare hands. That's equally disgusting."

"I wasn't thinking about it at the time."

Percy cleared his throat and nudged one of the stunned rats with his toe. "Verity, weren't you just saying something about not harming them."

"You're the one that called them a health hazard."

Oh, boy. "So no one is going to take the rats outside?" He half-expected one of them to insist that he did it, and he probably would if they asked—they were just furry rats that probably carried diseases. He could wash his hands afterward.

The only reply was more nervous staring.

Okay, that was it. He picked up his wand. "Wingardium leviosa."

Verity gave a little yelp and jumped back; fortunately for her the rats went after Percy, who screamed and ran to open the door. "George, you are sick!"

"We had to get rid of the rats." Was he the only one around here capable of logic? What a sad, sad fate for him. He grinned. "Maybe we now continue with the dusting I wanted?"

The dusting, amazingly enough, took a good three hours. George didn't know; maybe there was some charm out there that would pick up all dust with the swish of a wand. Maybe his mother knew it. Maybe he simply should have helped out with more of those chores when he was a kid. Dusting, thank goodness, wasn't a lousy job. It was just messy. The feather dusters Percy had dug out did the trick well-enough, he guessed. It seemed like the mostly just smeared dust around. Then George had the bright idea to shake the dusters out in the air. So much for thinking he had amazing skills of logic. Now there was more dust circulating the airshed known as the inside of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes.

"Verity," Percy asked between sneezes. "You're a girl. How would one best dust this place?"

George froze. This was going to get ugly very quickly.

Verity paused, feather duster in hand. Her face seemed unnaturally red. As well did her eyes. Weren't they usually green? "What did you say, Mr. Weasley?" she whispered.

He really, really needed to keep a real camera on hand. This was getting much too good.

Percy was just as immobile as the rest of them, though it seemed he had managed to realize that his statement had not been in the best of intelligence. And Percy had always prided himself on being so smart. "I was just asking about tips on dusting…"

It was like when their mother became mad. Except more… George could not quite think of the right word… evil. Yes, evil, that was the word he wanted, the perfect adjective to describe the chaos that was about to occur.

"And why, pray tell, would I be an expert on dusting?" She was not screaming, but her voice filled the entire room like a flaming explosion of death and terror. "Because I'm of the feminine persuasion?"

It was a blessing she never acted this way in front of customers. She had once yelled at George, though. He could not remember what it was about, actually. Just that he had nearly cried when it was over. One of the reasons it would be impossible to fire Verity if she ever became a lousy employee.

"I was just…" Poor, poor Percy.

Verity threw the feather duster at his head and knocked his glasses to the floor.

"Jerk," she muttered.

"I'm sorry," Percy whispered as he picked up his glasses. "I am really, really sorry."

"Either get a wet rag or shake the dusters outside the window," Verity said with a shrug.

After that, the rest of the cleaning went rather smoothly, more or less. Though George did have Percy pull him aside to inform him that he was having second thoughts about working with Verity.

"Just don't piss her off," was his instructions. "You made the huge mistake of pissing her off."

Percy looked sick. "I'll take that to heart."

It was nearly evening by the time the shop looked in order. Verity had made tuna sandwiches before coming in, enough for everyone. And they were pretty good, too.

"I made them because I figured you would be too stupid to remember to bring nourishment," she said as she filled up glasses of spring water for them all.

"I brought a granola bar," Percy defended.

"Which hardly constitutes as a meal."

But granola bars were pretty good.

"Well," Percy said brightly as if he owned the shop (that kind of thought had better not become a problem) "It looks like this place is ready to be back in business. We did a good job today."

"And with only two nosebleeds each," George said.

Percy frowned. "No one got a nosebleed."

"I wanted to give out several, though," he replied with shrug.

"You wouldn't dare punch a girl," Verity said.

No, he wouldn't. He shrugged again. The shop did look nice, and it would look better with some cash-carrying customers roaming the aisles. Fred would have really been impressed. "Thanks for helping out."

"I'm assuming I will be paid for this," Verity said, raising an eyebrow.

Employees always wanting to bring up that little factor. "Percy still hasn't cleaned the office."

"We can all help with that."

Percy shook his head. "Neither of you are smart enough to go anywhere near that office."

George frowned. It took him ten whole seconds to even realize that he was frowning. But he could feel it on his face, tight and painful as if someone else were frowning at him.

As if on cue Percy paled. "George, I didn't mean."

"Mm." George took a huge bite of tuna sandwich and swallowed it as best he could without chewing and not choking. "No, you're fine." Great. He hated to bring back the awkwardness.

"Oh." Verity put down her sandwich and daintily cleaned her mouth with a paper napkin. "That Browning person left a message this morning while you were locked outside. Wants to swing by and talk about order forms in a few days with you."

"What a boring subject," George replied. He had never cared for this aspect of the business. Though admittedly he was not half-bad at it. "Make Percy deal with it. He's running the office now."

Percy looked incredibly self-important with that.

Well, anyway to please the guy. If they were going to get through this without killing each other…

"All right," Percy said. "I'll set up an appointment."

"Great," said Verity. "Sorry that I forgot to mention it earlier. Now I have got to get out of here. I have a date. I'll see you tomorrow." Before George could even say goodbye she was out the door, leaving her mess of sandwiches.

George stared down at the plastic baggies and paper napkins. "Guess she wants us to clean this up."

"She's scary," Percy said quietly.

"Oh, yeah. Don't worry, you won't work with her much."

"Thank heaven." He sighed and began putting dinner items into the trash. "So… was it a good day for you?"

The obligatory question that George wasn't all that surprised to hear. The only problem with it was that it made him think, review the day in annoying concentration, and it really was not the most exciting thing in the world on which to concentrate. "Sure, it was a good day."

"No…" Percy bit his lip, seeming unsure of what he wanted to say. "So it was a good day?"

What an idiot. "Yes, it was a good day."

And at that moment, the card tower they had built with magic tumbled to the floor.

"Oh, great," Percy muttered. "Now we have to redo that."

George just stared. "What blew it over?"

"A draft from Verity slamming the door. Let's get out of here."


	5. The Pranks Begin

Life was so much easier when one owned a key to one's place of business. So maybe it wasn't Percy's place of business, but having his own copy of the key sure made life a lot simpler. At least he did not have to worry about George's inability to open and shut doors. It couldn't be that hard of a task, could it? And it had been quite fun racing George to unlock the door that morning of Day 39. He whistled, gave the key another toss into the air, caught it, and slipped it into his pocket.

It was only then he was struck by the obvious fear that the key just might be jinxed. It was probably going to shrink or disappear or bite him where it counted. Great. Percy removed the key and placed it on the desktop. What he could see of the desktop. The room was still a complete and total disaster and Percy was beginning to think he would never get it clear.

At least he wasn't forced to help pick up that mess of boxes that had fallen over the day before. But, good hell, it was as if the place had become messier. He had been in here for two days, doing some cleaning each time, and the office was more cluttered than ever. Take a deep breath, he told himself. It was just his imagination combined with the legacy of Fred's infamous messes.

Well, memory or no memory, he was going to get this mess organized. Day 39. That would be the purpose of Day 39.

There was a girlish scream out side as boxes fell again. Percy wasn't altogether sure whether it had come from George or Verity. Had he yet had the pleasure of hearing Verity scream? Somehow he had the vibe that it would not be a pleasant sound. Well, he was not going to help out there, no matter who was dying in an avalanche of pranks. He had agreed to work on business detail, and that was on which he would be working.

If he could make a place to do so, of course.

He had brought boxes. Boxes were always handy for helping in sorting. He was somewhat ashamed of these boxes, actually—he had purchased the cheap plastic things at a Muggle store for very cheap—but in the end they would be useful and make his life that much easier. He placed them in the clear parts of the floor—papers were literally everywhere—and made an index card for each. Purchase orders, correspondence, inventory lists, financial lists, etc.

"Guess it's coming to some use, eh, Fred?" he muttered under his breath. Happily. Though he was sure Fred could have been organized if the occasion had called for it.

He had gotten through the entire desk plus a quarter of a filing cabinet before the door opened. No polite knock, just the door opening and Verity's voice calling "Mr. Weasley? Are you in here?"

He raised his hand. "Somewhere underneath this mess."

She stood a moment in the doorway to take in the sight. "Wow," she said, impressed. "You have been really making some headway! Good job!"

"I swear, Verity, it was messier than it was yesterday."

She shrugged. "It just seems like that. Would you believe me if I told you that Mr. Weasley and the other Mr. Weasley were pretty darn organized before? I mean, they sort of had to drop the shop and run for a while there."

Percy nodded. He guessed he could understand that. And after… everything, he really couldn't blame anyone for the ways things had gotten. "They were smart, both of them."

She nodded. "Yeah. Great to work for."

Was that supposed to mean something towards him? "Is there something you came to tell me? I'm really not in the mood to chase rats or stack boxes or anything like that."

She stared at him a moment, green eyes glowing, and Percy was sure she was going to find something horribly sexist about his statement. "Oh, no. I just came to check up on you. I mean, you've been in here an awfully long time."

"This is where George wants me to work. I'm not good at selling things."

"Oh, it's easy," she said with a grin. "You just bother the people until they buy something. Or you pester them with lots of difficult, imposing questions until you nail down exactly what they need. Then you show it to them, then pester them until they buy it."

The sad part was that Percy honestly believed he could do that. "Well, I'm alive and I'm breathing." Probably wasn't funny, especially considering the situation, but Verity laughed anyway.

"Actually, I'm just bored out of my mind."

So you're bothering me. He made sure not to say that aloud. It wouldn't do to make her mad all over again. "I guess you can help me in here. Isn't there stuff to do out there?"

"We finished forty-five minutes ago."

Percy closed his eyes and tried his best not to get mad. "You mean George has been finished out there for nearly an hour and I'm still in here working. Why doesn't he come in here to help me?"

"Because this is where you are going to be working."

He sighed. Fair enough. "What have you two been doing?"

"Talking." She grabbed a piece of blonde hair and began to absent-mindedly twist it. "We talk a lot, Mr. Weasley and I."

"Oh." He was tempted to ask "about what?" but he already felt he knew the answer. What he didn't know is why George was not in here talking about the same subject with his own brother. Before he knew it he was crumpling the receipt in his hand. No. No. It went in the yellow box.

Verity gave a nervous giggle. "Mr. Weasley, are you all right?"

He nodded and tried his best to push the fury away. It wasn't a fair emotion. It was not a fair emotion. 39 days. He was doing fine, and he did not need to feel this way because it had not been his fault.

At least he didn't think so.

"He's in the bathroom right now," Verity continued brightly. "That's why I came in here to talk to you. So, how are you doing?"

The answer should have been obvious. "I'm fine. I really am fine. I'm getting to organize things."

She looked curious. "And that's fine?"

"Yes." He gave another nod and grabbed a few more papers to sort before he realized that this hobby was rather out of the ordinary. "I happen to like sorting things. Bizarre, I know, but it keeps things logical and a hell of a lot easier than this place is right now."

"I know exactly what you mean. I like sorting things, too. About half a year ago I organized the bookshelves by alphabetical order by author. Could you believe that those two had never heard of alphabetical order?"

Percy decided this girl wasn't all bad. "It's a lost art."

"Wanna dump pepper in his drink while he's busy?" she asked.

He stared at her. "What?"

She sighed and repeated her idea. "I have some pepper packets. Mr. Weasley has a thing of coffee out there. He is presently in the bathroom. Let's go and dump pepper in his coffee."

Percy stood up and readjusted his glasses. This was the weirdest thing he had heard all morning. "Why?"

She shrugged again. "I think it would make him feel better, to be perfectly honest. He's had a pretty rough morning."

And he was talking about it with Verity. Percy pushed away the first creeping of fury. It wasn't like he and George had not talked about it. The whole family had talked about it. And then all of a sudden they had just sort of stopped. Which had been okay, in its way. "All right." He dumped some lists into their correct box and followed Verity out the door. She had already pulled the pepper packets from her pocket. She handed him one.

As Verity had said, the entire shop looked gorgeous, ready for the first customers to appear, when the shop reopened. And nothing had yet inexplicably fallen over. And there was George's coffee sitting next to the cash register, half-drunk, just waiting for a dose of pepper.

This was pretty exciting, Percy had to admit. Until one thing hit him. "What if George likes the pepper in his coffee? What if he doesn't notice?"

Verity grinned slyly. "Look at your packet."

He obeyed. "Exploding Pepper. One touch of the tongue, and food is everywhere. Ah."

"Exactly." She ripped open the paper and dumped the contents into the cup. The liquid sizzled for a second, then was as steady as ever. "Now your packed. Twice the punch."

He had never properly pranked George back for anything. Ever. Mostly he had just yelled and maybe thrown a few fists. This was harmless enough. He opened his packet and dumped it—

Next thing he knew, he and Verity were covered in coffee. Verity was screaming—yes, she had been the one screaming that morning. Fortunately it was not hot—cool, actually, but it was no longer a liquid. They were covered in a coffee-colored sticky shell.

And George was behind them, laughing uproariously.

"Please," he said, as he calmed himself down to talk as only a professional jokester could. "You are amateurs. Both of you. Especially Percy. Do you think I would really leave my coffee cup unattended? I worked with Mad-Eye Moody, remember. I took a leaf out of his book."

Percy scowled at him. "It didn't explode after Verity put in her stuff."

"I assumed you two would team up. So I wired the stuff for double the amount of what is in those packets."

Verity pulled at the coffee coating on her arm. It was not coming off. "Clever, you jerk."

"Thank-you. It is of my own design. On the bright side—you'll love this, Percy—the caffeine content is still there and going right into your system, even though you drank nothing."

Percy rolled his eyes. Great, a new way to stay awake. "Do you think people will like being covered in this?" He grabbed a fistful and tore it from his shirt. Thankfully it took no fabric with it.

"No," George replied honestly. "But I find it funny. This is a joke shop you are now working at. Not everything is practical."

"Hardy har-har. Now how do we get it off?"

"I will kill you, Mr. Weasley, if it doesn't come out," Verity said. She was trying to scrape it from her hair.

George shrugged. "Just scrub really well in the shower. It's not waterproof. It's just coffee. And no, Verity, it does not stain."

"I still hate you." But she was smiling.

Percy was not. Of all the stupid, childish tricks… and just when Percy had been feeling some semblance of concern—the name he was giving to that fury. Was this how George expressed his emotions? Because if it was, it was highly, highly annoying and there was no way Percy was going to be sympathetic with it. There were tamer jokes in this shop. Could he not use those?

A sharp knock shook the door.

"We're not open!" George called.

The knock came again.

"We're not open!" Percy and Verity joined in that time.

"I don't care!" sang a woman's voice. "I'm not a customer, I'm the one who gets you your stupid supplies!"

"Ah, Browning!" Verity said happily. Sarcastically happy.

George made a face and ducked behind a display table. "I thought she wasn't coming for a few days."

Percy laughed. "Are you afraid, George?"

"Yes, yes I am. But not as afraid as you are. You're working with her. So go and open the door."

Well, this was certainly a side of George Percy had never quite seen. Fear of business associates. Was there a term for that? "George, I am covered in your coffee."

"Too bad. Go. This is your department now."

Percy felt like arguing, but there had not been a whole lot of arguing with George during the past thirty-nine days. He ripped another chunk of coffee-shell from his clothes and ran to the door.

The woman at the door was much younger than he had expected, barely out of Hogwarts or wherever she had gone to school. And yet she had already managed to scrape out a niche in the business world. Her hair was long, dark brown, and hung nearly to the ground. Her eyes were narrow with impatience that he could not make out the color. Probably red. She wore dark purple robes with a very professional appeal. It was like a kid playing dress-up. Percy was not sure if he could take her seriously until she looked at him.

"I don't think we have had the pleasure of meeting," she said. The words were plenty polite and proper, but the tone said she wanted to boil him alive. "I'm Shannon Browning." She held out a well-manicured hand for him to shake.

Percy took it. She was scary. No wonder George was afraid. "I'm Percy Weasley."

"Do I have the pleasure of meeting with you today?" If she smiled, Percy was sure he could see fangs. Was the woman a werewolf? At least she had let his hand go.

Percy nodded and tried to summon his Ministry persona. Professional, professional. "I believe so. I just started working here. Um, I was under the impression you would not be coming for a few days."

She frowned. "Well, I would like to make an appointment for something more specific than a few days. That's why I dropped by. I heard there was new management, and I thought this would be so much more personal than sending an owl."

He would have preferred an owl. Oh, how he would have preferred an owl.

"Are you going to invite me inside anytime soon, Mr. Weasley?"

"We're doing construction, Miss Browning!" George called. "Explosives!"

Miss Browning looked a little fearful at that. Thank-you, George. "How is Thursday at 10:45 for you, Mr. Weasley?" she hissed.

"That would be fine."

She handed him a card. It was ghost-white parchment with her name and the address of the Ivy Corporation. Little green Ivy pictures slithered there way around the card's surface like miniature snakes. "Since you are new, Mr. Weasley, here's how things run. I am your representative from Ivy. I sell you the things you need to make all your crazy stuff. You do not argue price with me. I sell for what I sell for and you will not be changing that because no one else has. Is that clear?" She did not even wait for an answer. "It was lovely to meet you. I shall see you on Thursday. Here. Good day."

With that, she marched off down Diagon Alley.

Percy slammed the door shut and muttered "psycho" under his breath. "I'll be back in the office."

But barely had he shut the door of the office did he hear a click.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and grabbed the handle. The door was locked, indeed. "George!"

No answer except for the sounds of laughter.

"It's not like I can't hear you!"


End file.
